The Macy's Parade Has Fan Floating

Being a native New Yorker, I can boast about a few undisputed facts: 1. We have the World Series champions, the New York Yankees; 2. The world's largest store; and 3. Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

In 1992, I had an opportunity to participate in a small slice of the New York tradition that began in 1926. Having a fascination about the parade since childhood, it was a point of pride and delight, so I jumped at the chance.

That year, I needed extra Christmas funds, so I got a part-time job in the display department in Macy's on Long Island, where I lived. One day I noticed a flier asking for employees to volunteer to work in the parade. A thrill ran through my body. The parade! This was the chance for a childhood dream to come true.

Arriving home from work that evening, I couldn't wait to share my wonderful news with the family. Mom was going to be in the parade! Thanksgiving couldn't come fast enough now.

On Thanksgiving Day, the bus would pick us up at the store's parking lot at 4 a.m. for the long drive to Newark, N.J. As I kissed my husband goodbye, we went over last-minute affirmations about where he and the boys would be standing along the parade route. I nodded like I'd remember.

Most of those shuffling on board the bus were still half-asleep. Laughing to myself, I felt like an impostor hidden among other retail employees snoozing around me. None of them seemed to think it was a big deal, certainly nothing to lose sleep over.

An old Macy's store was now a warehouse for all the props of the parade. No one would ever guess by looking at the place all the magic and joy that was housed inside. The old store was a shell of its former glory; brass fittings and fixtures on old showcases had long lost their luster to time. Shadows of a bygone era lingered, when a man easily fed his family and boasted a prestigious position in sales for the world's largest store.

The elevator that took us to the basement where the costumes were kept had a tarnished brass crank handle to close the gates. I imagined a smartly uniformed man greeting shoppers as they made their way to Ladies Better Dresses, on three.

The people in charge were the absolute in efficiency. It was strictly business, organization, directions, lines and orders.

We were divided into balloon handlers, clowns, floats, etc., and were given uniforms in dry-cleaning bags with our names on them. I was to walk under Snuggle, the fabric softener bear balloon. Dopey looking as our softener bottle costumes were, they were of fine quality and looked brand new, right down to the white gloves.

I felt a bit envious of the flowers, however. Their glistening pastel costumes were more glamorous than mine, with the silly bottle cap hat. I felt like a first-grader on the first day of school mixed up with a blase group of fifth-graders. Why was I more excited and enthusiastic than they were? This was the big time, and no one seemed to notice but me.

On the bus to the city, our balloon captains gave us important signals and whistle codes. We were drilled to get it right.

"Don't walk ahead of your balloon, the line will drag, you'll get tired and the balloon will become heavy. Keep your line perfectly vertical overhead. Listen to the whistle commands! One long, let out line. A few short blasts, STOP. Know when to stop, people! Listen for the GO blast. The parade will be stopping periodically to avoid bunching up. And YES! The balloon will lift you off the ground! If this happens, get a balloon captain to put someone else in your place!"

We were dropped off on a side street off Broadway that resembled an accident scene, where balloons were being treated by paramedics.

I walked past The Pink Panther, who was held prisoner under a gigantic black net, and I had to touch him. He was inflated and weighted down with sandbags. It was undignified to see him in such a state, but I knew from the seriousness of the people working on him that it was for his own good.

Our crew found Snuggle, who was in a similar state. I gave him a pat too, and told him we would take good care of him. The captains dismissed us to find our way to breakfast and return by a certain hour. I was alone and missed my family. I had all this excitement churning inside and no one to share it with. Grabbing a bagel and coffee, I cruised the various balloon sites, checking the progress. Many of the older balloons looked like veteran actresses, beautiful and lovely from the audience, but patched and worn up-close. These guys had seen many a street lamp tear into their limbs, and surely could swap stories with their fellow balloons back at the warehouse in Jersey.

The captains explained that each balloon had an entry spot to join the parade route. Our job was to carry the balloon to the end of our street horizontally over our heads, waiting admission on to Broadway.